


The Pearl

by intentandinvention



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Agender Justice, Anders and Isabela are Plotting Things, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, SO MUCH FLUFF, Warrior!Hawke, and his waiting list, everyone at The Pearl remembers Anders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5375705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months on the run following the events in Kirkwall, Anders and Hawke end up in Denerim for a well-deserved break. Hawke wasn't quite expecting Anders' choice of a safehouse, though....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pearl

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a fairly short piece but it turned fluffy and then was suddenly 4k words and I hadn't even got to the main event. Tags will be updated by chapter, since I can never decide what's going to happen until after I've written it, but I'm afraid that I cannot honestly promise a lack of corsets due to terrible influences on tumblr.

The rooftiles of Denerim seem to have unerring aim, Hawke reflects as he wipes rain from the back of his neck. His hood had only been down for a couple of heartbeats, and he can feel the cold wetness from the drip seeping into his undershirt already. In front of him, outside the safety of the overhanging eaves, rain is hammering Denerim’s cobbles, so heavy it obscures the street in both directions. Well, maybe he ought to be grateful for that; less visibility means less chance of being recognised.

He glances back at the closed door of the house, listening for any sign of trouble. Anders said it was safe here, that he’s known this Underground contact for years, but Hawke’s fingers still itch at being left outside. He’s lost enough; he’s not losing his lover as well. But at least Anders never goes anywhere unaccompanied, and given the lack of blue Fade light leaking from the shutters, all seems to be well.

Hawke’s tapping his foot nervously when the door finally opens, and he turns immediately, unable to stifle his relieved grin when Anders ducks out of the low doorway unharmed. ‘Everything all right?’ he asks.

Anders chuckles as he pulls up his hood, tucking strands of long hair inside, and nods before he turns back to the contact inside. ‘Be safe, then,’ he says, and there’s a murmured response that Hawke doesn’t really listen to because he’s too busy watching Anders’ profile, especially the way the candlelight falls gently over his face and makes his freckles flicker. Hawke doesn’t see him by candlelight much; these days it’s magelight or daylight, given that they rarely dare to stop at inns where there’s even the smallest chance that there might be travellers who could recognise the disappeared Champion. Coming to Denerim’s a big gamble for both of them, and not one Hawke would have been prepared to take if Anders hadn’t insisted his contact here was entirely trustworthy and very much in need of help. King Alistair might be tolerant of mages, but anyone identifying themselves as such without affiliation to the Rebellion (something Anders doesn’t dare attempt, given what they’ve heard from mages and non-mages alike on their travels) is usually escorted to the edge of the city.

Hawke pulls his hood up as Anders takes his arm, leading him away from the house. The rain’s heavy on their waxed wool cloaks, and it drowns out whatever Anders is saying as they walk. It feels close, claustrophobic, not being able to hear anything behind them, and Hawke keeps having to resist the need to half-turn to check if they’re being followed. They’ve only been in Denerim for a couple of hours and they know no one followed them in; they’re safe for now. They turn into a side street where the eaves of the houses block most of the rainfall, and suddenly he can hear Anders again. ‘– so he says we’ll need to come back in three days, but he’d prefer us to be nearby,’ the mage is finishing, and Hawke hears the question in his voice.

That’s a long time for them to be in the same place. A very long time. And in Denerim? ‘It’d better be a good welcome banquet if they need that long to prepare it,’ Hawke quips weakly, wondering why Anders is even considering it.

Anders stops walking and turns, smile and eyes shadowed by the light coming from a nearby window, and even with a week’s worth of untrimmed beard the sight of him near takes Hawke’s breath away. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘I asked around and we’ll even have somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe, before you ask. Come on.’

And with that he’s striding away, and Hawke grimaces as he follows because whilst he very much appreciates those long, lithe legs (which he hasn’t seen properly for _weeks_ and hopefully this safehouse has a private room), sometimes Anders forgets that Hawke doesn’t quite have his turn of speed or a spirit lending his exhausted body extra strength to keep going. They have, after all, been on the road for a long time. Hawke lets himself entertain brief thoughts of a bath at this safehouse, daydreaming of hot water and clean sheets as he catches up with Anders. They pass a couple of patrols of guardsmen as they cross a huge market square, but no one bothers them; they’ve left Anders’ staff with the contact, and without it they’re just a couple of men hurrying to get home out of the rain. Hawke scratches at his overgrown beard, wondering if his fantasy safehouse will have a mirror.

There’s a burst of laughter and light and singing from across the street as a door opens, and three figures spill out onto the cobbles, arms across each other’s shoulders for balance. Hawke turns away before the light touches his face, and realises that Anders is beckoning him over. To a building with red curtains in its windows and red lights on its eaves, and a ball of white painted on its door. Hawke raises an eyebrow, but walks over anyway. ‘Looking to add some spice to our threesome?’ he asks mildly. ‘And here I thought the Champion of Kirkwall and a Fade spirit was adventure enough.’

Anders rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling fondly. ‘The two of you are _more_ than enough adventure for me. We can show our faces in here, though; Madam’s people know better than to kiss and tell.’ He pulls open the door and Hawke follows him into the room beyond, blinking a little in the sudden light. There’s laughter and light in here too, although it smells less of cheap beer and more of cheap sex. Anders is pulling off his sodden brown cloak, dripping all over the floor, and as he turns to the counter by the door there’s a shout. Hawke’s half-drawn the knife at his belt before he realises the woman behind the counter is leaning over and smiling at Anders - and it’s a genuine smile, as if she’s a friend.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Sparky!’ she says. Hawke is entirely of the opinion that Anders is adorable when he blushes, so he raises an eyebrow and enjoys watching the pink spreading across his lover’s face turn to red.

‘I worked here for a bit a long time ago,’ Anders explains, busying himself with brushing rain from his cloak so that he doesn’t meet Hawke’s eyes. He unbuckles the broadsword from Hawke’s back and heaves it over the counter, and the woman puts it underneath, handing Anders a scribbled receipt for it. Small weapons only, in a brothel. Not that it worries Hawke; he still has his daggers, and Anders doesn’t need his staff to protect them. ‘A _very_ long time ago,’ Anders says, when he sees the way Hawke’s looking at him.

‘And yet we haven’t forgotten,’ the woman adds, and her wink at Hawke leaves absolutely no doubt as to what Anders was doing during his employment here. Hawke suspects he should feel jealous but, well, that’s a fascinating trove of images right there which he’s never going to be able to get out of his head.

‘He’s difficult to forget; we try our best,’ he says, trying for dry and missing spectacularly. Anders raises an eyebrow, shakes his head and reaches out to pull Hawke through to the taproom, where the sound of a flute is just about making itself heard above the din. Hawke tightens his hold on Anders’ hand, going where he’s led and trying to avoid looking at the smooth curves and sculpted muscles that seem to be almost everywhere he looks. Maker, he’s been on the run for too long if this much naked flesh is so distracting; he used to be able to wander in and out of the Rose without so much as blinking.

‘–of course, I told him he could fuck his bloody fish for all I cared!’ The voice is startlingly familiar, and Hawke grins as he sees where Anders is leading him. Isabela's holding court with her boots crossed on a table and her white dress slipping up muscular thighs, Wicked Grace cards scattered between piles of coin. She looks up as Anders shoulders his way between a couple of patrons, and the look she gives him is nothing short of smouldering. ‘Well, hello there Sparky,’ she drawls. ‘Oh, and your boy toy, I see,’ she adds, winking at Hawke.

Well, at least she didn’t just identify them in front of the entire crowd, Hawke muses. ‘Good to see you too, Captain,’ he retorts. ‘What are you doing on dry land? Lost your ship again?’ Isabela’s audience is melting away, and when their corner of the room is empty but for them, Anders pulls a couple of chairs out and gestures to Hawke to sit. Whoever was playing against Isabela, they lost; Anders carefully lines the piles of coin up against the wall, and if Isabela sees him palm a couple of sovereigns she doesn’t say anything.

‘Just making a stop for supplies,’ she replies. ‘And morale, of course. You boys bringing trouble with you?’

Anders shakes his head. ‘No one’s after us,’ he says. ‘I sent a message ahead to Madam; she’s going to give us a room for a couple of days.’

‘Nothing quite like that Warden stamina,’ Hawke adds, before Isabela can say it.

She laughs, recrossing her legs and showing them both a long flash of smooth brown skin. ‘Ah, lover boy, you’ve deprived the rest of us of one of the Maker’s greatest gifts,’ she sighs. ‘Sparky’s wonderful tricks _and_ Warden stamina? Your selfishness knows no bounds. Why, when Sparky was working here his clients used to have to put their names on a waiting list, and here you are with exclusive access and not sharing at all.’

‘I’ve never said I was against a little sharing,’ Hawke replies easily, thinking of blue light on pale skin. ‘Just not with you.’

Isabela clutches her hands over her chest, miming heartbreak. ‘How callously you break a woman’s heart, you ruthless rebel types! And without even letting her watch.’

Anders coughs suddenly, his hand to his mouth as his face reddens, his throat sounding dry and scratchy. At their startled looks, he visibly gathers himself together. ‘Sorry, something in my throat. Garrett, love, could you get me something to drink?’ He widens his eyes just a little, licking his lips almost unconsciously, and Hawke knows perfectly well that he’s being dismissed. Anders doesn’t lie to him anymore, not after the week of uncomfortable half-conversations when they left Kirkwall. They’re in this together now, all three of them, and Hawke kisses Anders’ forehead as he passes him on the way to the bar, letting him know that it’s okay, that he’s understood. Whatever Anders wants to talk to Isabela about, Hawke knows he’ll find out if he needs to know.

The bar’s crowded, and Hawke’s not tall enough to stand out the way Anders is, but he’s not in a hurry so he waits. It’s not long before one of the servers notices him, and she looks him up and down before she draws two mugs of ale. He doesn’t bother correcting her – Isabela’s practically rolling in gold, she can buy her own damn drinks.

 ‘You’re the one who came in with Sparky, aren’t you?’ the woman asks.

Hawke nods, wondering if everyone in The Pearl knows who Anders is. The server smiles and leans over the bar, planting a kiss on his cheek before he realises what she’s doing. ‘Not that I object to a kiss from a beautiful woman, but what was that for?’ he asks in bemusement as she pushes the mugs over to him.

‘For looking after him,’ she replies. ‘Sparky deserves someone like you, I reckon.’ She winks as she turns to another customer, and Hawke covers his confusion by picking up the mugs and shouldering his way back into the crowd. He’s thought often about whether he deserves Anders, but it feels odd to think about whether Anders deserves him. He’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad sign that a stranger thinks that’s the case.

As he walks back to the table he hears Isabela talking quickly and quietly, and when he gets a line of sight with the table he realises that Anders has his head in his arms, and what’s visible of his ears under the fall of his fair hair is bright red. Isabela is chuckling as Hawke puts the drinks down, patting his lover’s shoulder. ‘She break you, love?’ he asks in amusement, remembering games of Wicked Grace in their latter years in Kirkwall where Isabela used to have Anders all but crawling under the table. She’s always maintained that he used to be much less shy, but Hawke never believed her before. Now, though? What on earth did Anders used to do to have clients _putting their names on a list_ to get in his bed?

Isabela smirks, licking her lips. ‘Oh, if only he’d let me,’ she purrs. ‘He seems to have this _exclusive_ thing going on these days.’

There’s a silly grin on Hawke’s face, he knows there is, but there’s nothing he can do about it so he sits down beside his lover and nuzzles at the side of the mage’s face. ‘I’ll protect you from the mean pirate captain, love,’ he murmurs.

Anders turns his head, an eyebrow raised. ‘You’ll join in is what you’ll do,’ he replies, but he sits up anyway, lips brushing over Hawke’s cheek in thanks for the ale. The two of them have made a deal with Justice; they’ll dedicate their lives to helping mages (although if Hawke’s honest, after what Anders has shown him he was probably going to do that anyway), and in return the spirit will trust Anders with his own body.

‘Joining in is _so_ much fun, after all,’ Isabela’s saying, but she winks when Hawke glances at her, and holds her hands up, open in surrender. ‘I’m teasing! Goodness knows with all the torrid romance of that ‘deadly rebel apostate and his self-exiled noble champion on the run’ thing you have going on, I’d only lower your tone.’ Anders’ lip twists at that description, and Hawke lays a gentle hand on the blond’s arm, reassuring the both of them. Despite the amusement in Isabela’s voice, she’s speaking quietly enough that no one will overhear her, and he’s grateful to her for that.

‘When were you last in Kirkwall?’ he asks, leaning forward. ‘How is everyone?’

She shrugs. ‘I was there last month. Same old Kirkwall. Your sister’s doing well with the clinic – she’s moved it to that tent city Varric’s paying for outside Lowtown. Varric and Aveline are doing a good job of putting everything back together, and Fenris is helping from time to time, in between disappearing into the mountains. Kitten’s still in the alienage.’

Anders makes a noise of surprise. ‘I thought she was leaving with you.’

‘She did,’ Isabela says, shrugging a little. ‘We had some adventures and then she went back to her people. You know I don’t do–’ she gestures at their hands intertwined on the table– ‘all that. We’re big girls, we can put up with being on different sides of the sea. And anyway, she’s their hahren now, and I have a ship to run. But what about you two? Made any templars cry recently?’

They talk into the night, drinking and laughing and remembering, and the moon’s high over the rooftops by the time Hawke and Anders stumble up the narrow stairs at the back of the building to a slightly shabby room. Hawke’s gratified to find his sword leaning against a battered table, and even happier to see a metal bathtub leaning against the wall. He stands in the centre of the worn rug and lets Anders unbuckle and remove the heavier bits of his armour, only swaying a little. The roads aren’t safe since the templar and mage rebellions started, and it’s easier just to travel ready, but it feels good to be free of the weight of it. He left his old Champion’s armour behind with Varric – too distinctive, with all those angles – and the gear he’s wearing now is mostly chain, but even so pauldrons and greaves are hardly _light_ , not to mention the mailshirt. Once Anders has taken away the last of the plate he pulls the mail over his head, somehow managing not to let it catch on his hair and beard, and drops it on the floor, stretching his arms gratefully and yawning. ‘Thanks love,’ he mumbles.

Anders laughs ( _Anders_ has Justice keeping him unfairly clearheaded) and unlaces the padded shirt beneath the mail. ‘So many layers, I don’t know how you stand it,’ he says fondly as he pushes it off Hawke’s shoulders. ‘It must be so hot.’

‘Why thank you,’ Hawke smirks, and Anders’ half-heartedly-concealed snigger tells him something wasn’t quite right about that particular response. Oh well. Anders’ fingers are picking at his undershirt now, drifting down to his waist where they slide underneath the linen, warm and soft against his sides. ‘Mm. More touching,’ he suggests.

‘More sleeping,’ Anders counters, pulling the shirt up over his head. ‘We can do touching in the morning, after I’ve taken away that awful hangover you’re going to have.’ Hawke waves his arms, tangled in the sleeves, and Anders’ laughter washes over him again, light and happy. It makes everything in him tingle, knowing that he’s the cause of that sound, and he pretends to be stuck just a little more than he is so that he can hear it for longer. When he finally shoves the cloth off over his head, Anders is wiping tears from his eyes. ‘Love you, you great dumb bear,’ the mage says, blinking.

An injured expression is all it takes to get Anders laughing again, and Hawke laughs with him this time. ‘Love you too,’ he says as he heads obediently for the bed, sitting down to tug his pants off his legs. He watches Anders strip quickly and efficiently, and when they’re both down to their smallclothes he lies down, opens his arms and lets Anders nuzzle into them, legs tangled with his and head in the crook of his neck, fair hair cascading everywhere. His mage falls asleep quickly, exhausted, and Hawke waits in the gentle dark to follow, enjoying the soft bed beneath him and the relaxation of the man beside him. Perhaps three days won’t be that bad after all.

 

Hawke wakes to the soft rush of healing magic through his head, and opens his eyes to morning sunlight that’s agony for a moment before the spell works. When everything’s clear, he shifts up to kiss the tips of thumbs and fingers resting gently on his temples, rubs his cheek against an open palm. ‘Good morning,’ Anders says beside him, and a quick kiss lands on his cheek.

‘You are my favourite person,’ Hawke informs him muzzily, pulling him down for a hug. Anders’ laughter comes out as a soft huff as his face is pressed against Hawke’s chest hair.

‘You’re also my favourite person, even if you smell like the floor of the Hanged Man,’ the mage mumbles after a while, and Hawke has no choice but to push him out of bed. Anders flails for a moment, but recovers quickly and pulls the coverlet down onto the floor, ignoring Hawke’s indignant shout and knotting the soft wool around his shoulders like a cloak. He stands and wanders through their discarded clothes to the tin bath leaning against the wall, righting it and placing it near the small fireplace. Hawke rolls onto his stomach on the bed, watching the bath being filled alternately with ice and jets of flame, steam gusting over the edges.

‘Why can’t you just fill it with hot water?’ he asks when Anders shifts position after a while, refolding long legs under himself.

Anders raises an eyebrow as he melts a particularly stubborn lump of ice. ‘Would you like me to give you a lecture on the entropic variables involved in the Fade extraction and mana crystallisation of warm water versus ice?’ he asks mildly.

‘What? Oh. No, I’m all right, thanks.’

‘I thought you might be. Just as well, really, because having already decided to be a Creation specialist I was asleep during that particular lecture. Right. Bath time, love.’ A flick of fingers and the fire’s lit, and Hawke thanks the Maker once again that Anders is a mage as he strips off his smallclothes, settles into the hot water with a groan of contentment. Anders ambles around picking up their clothes, turning things the right way out and folding them neatly, laying Hawke’s armour out piece by piece. It makes Hawke think of the untidiness of their later Kirkwall years together, when Anders had started to relax out of his need to always be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. If someone had told him ten years ago he’d be missing inside-out smallclothes strewn at the foot of the bed he’d have thought them crazy, but he does. Anders is only messy when he feels safe, and Hawke wishes he could give him that freedom again.

He watches Anders out of the corner of his eye as he scrubs himself with yellow soap and a cloth, waiting for the tidying to be done. Whatever he wishes he could give his lover, he won’t deny him something that makes him feel safer. And anyway, the bath is warm and relaxing, and the coverlet over Anders’ shoulders is thin enough that when he bends to pick things up Hawke gets a near-decent view of his extremely decent behind (and entertains himself thinking of the indecent things he’d like to do to it). Finally the last piece of clothing has been placed on the table, and Hawke leans back in the tub as Anders turns to him, spreads his legs invitingly.

‘Join me?’ he asks.

Anders’ smile is gorgeous, even accompanied by a despairing headshake. ‘You’re supposed to be getting clean, love,’ he says.

‘I am!’ Hawke protests. ‘I’m positively sparkling – I’ll stand out like a sore thumb to anyone looking for the Champion of Kirkwall. Clearly the only solution is for me to get dirty again.’

Anders closes his eyes, still shaking his head, but there’s a smile on his closed lips, and he walks to stand over the bath and bends for a kiss. ‘I don’t know why I put up with such terrible lines,’ he murmurs as they part.

‘At least Justice loves me,’ Hawke says dolefully, and there’s a flash of blue in his lover’s golden-brown eyes, which go distant for a moment.

‘Justice would like me to remind you that they are also unimpressed by your behaviour, and to confirm that I love you just as they do,’ Anders says, and as he pulls back Hawke reaches out and tugs at the flimsy knot on the coverlet, grinning triumphantly when it slips down Anders’ shoulders to leave him naked except for his smallclothes. Anders rolls his eyes but he shimmies out of them anyway, and as soon as he’s done Hawke yanks him down, bathwater and long freckled limbs going everywhere as the mage ends up straddling his lap.

Anders bows his forehead to Hawke’s as water sloshes in all directions, body shaking with laughter and hair hanging in his face. Hawke’s banged his elbow in the chaos but he suspects he won’t get any sympathy if he points it out, so he brushes back Anders’ hair and wordlessly demands kisses instead. He gets them, Anders suddenly all groping hands and soft skin and warm, wet mouth, and Hawke moans as the mage shifts in his lap. He huffs when Anders pulls away, and nuzzles the paleness of his neck. ‘I’m meeting Isabela downstairs in half an hour,’ Anders mutters, but his hands are resting on Hawke’s biceps, absently stroking, and Hawke recognises a token protest when he hears one.

‘Then I’ll be quick,’ he says, and he reaches down to stroke both of them together, grinning at Anders’ bitten-off cry and the sudden spread of summoned slick beneath his fingers. ‘We’re in a brothel, love, you can make all the noise you want,’ he notes.

Anders’ hips jerk, almost pulling him out of Hawke’s grasp, and the mage bends forward to drag urgent kisses along Hawke’s cheekbone, up into the fall of his hair as they gasp and move together. The water slips cooling up Hawke’s back, over Anders’ legs, and Anders grimaces and pushes his entire body forward to put both hands under the surface, warmth curling out from his fists in a wave that makes Hawke shudder. He twists his hand around their cocks, glorying in the warmth and the smoothness and the choked sounds that Anders stutters into his collarbone. Raising his hand, he brushes long hair back from Anders’ ear, lowers his mouth to it. ‘I want to hear you,’ he whispers. Anders arches against him, warm whimpers brushing his skin.

‘Not … Ah! Not now. Later! When it’s - _fuck Garrett yesyesthat_ – busier downstairs _fuck_.’

‘You’ll yell for me?’ Hawke asks, lowering his voice so that he can barely hear himself above the writhing and splashing of the man in his lap. Anders buries his head harder in the crook of Hawke’s neck, crimson embarrassment flooding over his face and shoulders. Hawke moves his hand faster, lowers his head to suck a mark to go with the sudden flush, and Anders’ whimpered _fuckyesipromisejustdon’tstop_ trails into keening.

The mage shivers suddenly, lowers his hand between them and slides it beneath Hawke’s, and the sudden feel of fingers almost undoes Hawke before Anders breaks away, takes a deep breath and pushes back to stand, water streaming from his body. ‘Don’t want to ruin the bathwater,’ he says with a ragged smile, and Hawke can barely suppress the betrayed whine rising in his throat until he realises that Anders still has one foot in the bathwater, is raising a hand to tangle in Hawke’s dark hair while the other works his own cock. Hawke kneels up but he’s always been terrible at letting himself be guided, and he leans forward eagerly to take the pink head into his mouth, Anders’ fist bumping gently against his lips. He licks and sucks and presses for more, and it’s not long before Anders tenses with a strangled cry, his hand fisting in Hawke’s hair and holding him in place as Hawke’s mouth is flooded with the taste of him. Hawke swallows eagerly, one hand braced on the edge of the tub and the other on Anders’ hip, then licks and sucks gently as his hair’s released.

He’s about to reach down and finish himself off when Anders turns, sauntering towards the bed and smoothing both hands through the water droplets on his ass. Hawke lets himself stare, and Anders looks over his shoulder and chuckles, wiggles his hips. ‘Fuck me?’ he suggests. ‘Quickly, so I can get clean again before Isabela gets bored and comes up here to pick the lock?’

Hawke doesn’t need to be told twice.

**Author's Note:**

> So that you have been warned in advance, I normally update at the average speed of a glacier. I will do my best to increase this speed.


End file.
